Reasons
by FansieFace
Summary: The reaons behind certain things and the sentiment behind why the boys have certain items.
1. Listening

From under his mattress, he pulled the box. The small, square thing. From inside his cap he fished out the key. Small, brass. Tarnished. The last two pieces of his old life. He slipped the key into the box and turned it, twisting it around and around until it wouldn't turn anymore. He released it, watching it spin slowly back for a short moment before closing his eyes and letting the sweet, tinkling music wash over him. In his mind, he wasn't on a small cot in a crowded lodging house anymore, he was on a big bed in a small room, cozy and comfortable, a blanket beneath him. His brother beside him. His mother in the next room over. His father reading in the living room. The music was playing softly, lulling him to sleep. A single tear made its way under his closed eyelid and slid down his face, making a small track through the New York City grime that coated it thickly. He sniffled quietly as the music stopped, tucking box and key into their separate hiding places. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, and used a finger to spread dirt over the tear track. He pulled his cap back on, feeling the hardness of the small brass key on his skull, and walked slowly down the stairs. There was a reason he was the last one down for poker every night. He wasn't just counting the cards, getting his gambling money, finding a cigar. He was listening.

 **Once I start posting, I don't seem to stop. This is so extremely super short! It was written in about two minutes, because I imagined a newsie with a music box, and then I was like, "Huh. I wonder if they'll like it." So write a review! I like reviews! They make me happy! Happiness results in stories that don't include a dead Jack or Crutchie or Katherine! Remember that now! Ahem. So I tried to imply the newsie I imagine this with, but really it could be any of them. I just like the idea if him having a music box hidden somewhere.**


	2. Searching and Remembering

He never let anybody see the ring. Small golden band with a small diamond, if they saw they would tell him to sell it, pawn it for enough money to eat well for a long time. He doubted they would understand why he kept it. He kept it on a string around his neck, checking it constantly to make sure the ring hadn't fallen off. When nobody was looking, he would run his finger across the diamond, feeling its cold, hard surface and pressing it into his thumb. The reasons behind it were reasons that he thought the rest of the boys wouldn't understand. It was his only piece of his old life, of the family that had been good to him, of the love that had been given to him. The ring was worth some money, but so much more in memories. He could see the face of his mother when he touched it, hear her voice as she pressed it into his hands as she died and told him to keep it until he found somebody special to give it to. Not to lose it or waste it, but to find a girl he could love and take care of as a wife just as she had loved and taken care of him as her child. He could hear her final breath and see her final smile at her only son. That was his last memory of his mother, and the ring kept it close. He couldn't sell it, or waste it, so he flirted. He flirted with every girl he saw, both to sell papes and in the hope that he would find a girl like his mother had said, a girl he could love and take care of forever. He had his reasons for keeping it and not having enough money all the time. He was searching and waiting and wanting and remembering, and those things were worth more to him than a full stomach every night.

 **I got asked to expand that one-shot by coveredinbees14, and she gave me some ideas, so now here it is. Again, I think it's pretty obvious who this is supposed to be, but it could really be many if them. I think there'll be a few more chapter, and then I'm thinking of maybe doing one of the boys realizing that they all have that one special thing that links them to their pasts, but I dunno about that.**


	3. Reminder

The stub of pencil was kept tucked inside the cylinder that held his drawings. It was small, not big enough to draw with or even hold, really. If it was any other pencil, it would have been throw away long ago, but he kept it. It was useless, it was old, but it was his. Sometimes he would take it out and hold it, and take out the drawing he kept folded with it and just look. He'd look at the drawing and clench the pencil so tightly in his hand it would leave a mark. Every time, he came close to throwing the pencil off the roof but couldn't ring himself to. He always ended up refolding the picture and tucking it and the pencil into the bottom of the tube. He could never give up the first drawing he made or the pencil he made it with, no matter how many times he tried. Most of his boys wouldn't understand why he kept such a useless object, but he did. He saved it for himself, to remind him of how far he's come from the rough pencil sketch to his detailed drawings and paintings today. That pencil marked the beginning of his art, and his art was one of the most important things in his life. So no matter how many times he told himself he was going to throw the pencil stub off the roof, he could never bring himself to. He always told himself he would really do it the next time, the next time, the next time, but he never did. He saved it. He saved it for the reminder, the reminder of how far he'd come and how far he could go. How his limits were unreachable, his talent could stretch to the moon and back. He would make it. And his pencil stub reminded him of that. He couldn't bring himself to get rid of that precious reminder.


	4. Almost

The pocket watch didn't even work. Heck, the glass was cracked, the hands were bent somehow, and the numbers were wearing out. He wasn't even sure exactly where the watch came from. He thought he found it in a dumpster when he was new on the streets, but it might have been from his time at the orphanage or even from his family. The thing was, he didn't remember much of anything from before he became a newsies. There were little flashes, sure, of voices or faces, but no actual memories. He couldn't even remember if he was always an orphan or if he'd once had a family. The newsies had called him after a bird because of the fact he couldn't remember anything, just like a bird couldn't remember a face that had fed it before. That name was the only name he could ever remember having. But he did remember finding the newsies, and being taken in by them and having the watch in his pocket the whole time. He used to try to wind it, hoping to get a tick out of the old thing, but it never worked, and eventually he gave up. Still, he saved the old timepiece, wondering where it came from, where he came from, and hoping the watch had some clue. The other boys could remember together, and those talks were the only ones he never had anything to say in. He wished the watch would give him some idea of who he was, and who he should be, but it never did. Still, sometimes when everybody was asleep, he would take the broken pocket watch out of his pocket and look at it, see the sparse light flicker off the cracks and the tarnished metal, and feel himself almost remember. It was this feeling that made him save the watch, because almost remembering was better than not at all, and almost came closer to the real thing every time. Almost was almost enough, and the feeling of almost enough was enough for that short amount of time. He couldn't give up his almost.

 **This one is at least slightly longer than the others, which was unplanned, but I like the way it turned out. The newsies I'm thinking of is slightly less clear, but if you think about it it shouldn't be hard. I think I have three more objects and then a special little thing to do, but it could end up as more or less. If you have any suggestions or ideas for objects and newsies to put them with, review!**


	5. Robin Hood

That book was his. He had every single bit of it memorized, the smell and feel of it, the words, the pictures. It was thin, old, a child's book, and it wasn't even from his old life, but he kept it. The pictures were fading, but he could still tell what they were. Pictures of a man sweeping through a great forest, his friends in tow, making life better for those around him. Stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, that's what Robin Hood did best, and he did it for good reasons. In many ways, the story of Robin Hood reminded him of his life. The newsies were like Robin's friends, with their leader as Robin himself. They were both group of poor, ostracized people who were made out to be criminals, which was true for some but not for all. And anyway, all crimes were committed for the good of the people, or at least a group of them, not for personal gain. Robin Hood was the story of a man whose circumstances made life hard for him, and even for those around him sometimes, and that story mirrored his own. The book was old and torn, fading and had lost what had been splendor at one point, and yes, he'd found it in an alley, but he knew that story by heart, and one of his greatest and only comforts had been turning the pages at night after a bad nightmare, watching Robin and his Merry Men go on adventures and save the day, and in his imagination they could save him from his life. One day, they'd come sweeping out of the forest and take him with them, and he'd live the life of an outlaw, live the life of stealing from the rich that had done nothing to help him ever and giving what he took to the poor families that had given up their last coin for a paper they might not have even been able to read, just because they knew he was hungry. He'd be the one that was loved by the people who had cared for him, because he'd be the one that saved them as repayment for what they'd done for him. It was a fantasy, something he knew would never happen, but he could dream, and dream he did. The book kept those dreams alive and the nightmares away, and no matter how old it got, how much the pictures faded, or how many times he had to search for that loose page, he was never going to get rid of it. The hope of being like Robin Hood was what kept him from losing all hope, from submitting to the rich and living like a real criminal. He was _not_ giving up on Robin Hood, but just the same, the others did _not_ need to know he was fueled by a children's tale. Robin Hood was safe in his bunk, he was safe in Robin's understanding of the world, and he wasn't losing that to somebody telling him it was childish. Robin Hood was his.

 **Not sure how clear it is who this one is. Biankies, you should be happy if you can guess. *hint-hint***


	6. Understanding

He never let on about the things he knew. He never let Race know that sometimes he wasn't the last one downstairs, that sometimes Crutchie was in the small room he shared with Jack in bad weather, and that he could sometimes hear the quiet music and the even softer sniffles. He never told Mush that he heard the turning of old pages or Finch that he saw the light flickering off the brass watch on the nights he slipped inside from the cold or rain. He made a point of being noisy and slow while entering to give them a chance to put the objects away. He never told Romeo how he noticed when the boy clutched the thing hidden inside his shirt, or Specs that he noticed how he touched his glasses when he was stressed or scared. He didn't even tell Jack that he noticed those nights when Jack sat by the corner of the rooftop and stared at the old piece of paper while clutching something tightly in his hand, or that he noticed Jack start to throw both down but always stop himself. Crutchie pretended that he didn't see those things, that he didn't know exactly what was happening in their minds. And Crutchie did know, maybe as well as they did themselves. They all had their special things, the objects that kept them functioning in the hard times they faced, and so did he. His crutch kept him grounded through the hardest times of his life, including the hardest of them all, his time in the Refuge. And he also knew how embarrassed he'd feel if everybody, if _anybody_ , knew how much he depended on his crutch. He didn't even tell Jack how much of a comfort object it was, and so he respected the other boys' want, and even need, to keep their special things private. But Crutchie saw them, he knew they were there, and he watched. He watched them pull through everything life threw at them, and he still kept the secrets they didn't realize they had entrusted him with. Crutchie was the watcher, the seer, the knower. He was the trusted, the loved, and the protected. But more than anything, Crutchie Morris was the boy who understood.

 **Well, that wraps up this story. Thanks to everyone who gave me prompts and who reviewed! Reviews make me happy and keep me inspired, especially when they come from people with positive messages!**


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